


A Patchwork Family: At the Sign of the Golden Perch

by Lbilover



Series: A Patchwork Family Series [3]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Violence, Post-Quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-09 23:32:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8917510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lbilover/pseuds/Lbilover
Summary: On their way to Crickhollow to visit Merry and Pippin, Frodo, Sam and Huan stop for the night at The Golden Perch, where their small family is nearly torn apart.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for Marigold's Talechallenge 29. I had to use one element from each of four different categories. The ones I chose were: a dangerous or dangerous seeming stranger; a journey; an inn; a writer.

~*~

_Wedmath, S.R. 1420_

Golden light streamed from the open windows of a long two-story building, a warm and welcoming sight in the deepening twilight. Sounds of merry laughter and slightly off-key singing reached the ears of three weary travellers who unconsciously picked up the pace of their footsteps, eager to reach their destination after many hours on the road.

“Well, Sam,” remarked Frodo Baggins to the hobbit who walked by his side, “you’ll finally have a chance to discover if Pippin was right.”

“Right about what?” Sam Gamgee asked, puzzled.

“About _The Golden Perch_ having the best beer in the Eastfarthing.”

“How did you know…” Sam halted, and stared at Frodo in astonishment.

Frodo smiled, and took Sam by the arm, urging him on. “Did you think I didn’t notice the disappointment on your face when I told Pippin that inns make for longer delays than shortcuts across country?”

“I reckoned you had too many other things on your mind- important things- to notice,” Sam replied. He didn’t mention what those other things were; they were best left in the past, and besides he and Frodo both knew right well what they were.

“You were always important to me, Sam,” Frodo said in a quiet voice, “even when…” But he didn’t finish the sentence, only squeezed Sam’s arm and added in a lighter tone, “Now we’d best hurry. Huan is giving us a very reproachful look. He may not care for beer, but he knows an inn when he sees one, and he wants his supper.”

A few paces ahead, a small slender dog, a barely discernable grey ghost in the twilight, had stopped and was looking back at them with his rose ears pricked and one front foot poised delicately above the ground. His body language said as clearly as words, “Well, why are you two lollygagging? Come along.”

“So he is,” Sam said with a grin, adjusting the straps of the heavy pack on his back. Frodo’s concession to Sam to get him to agree to their walking rather than driving to Crickhollow was to allow him to carry virtually all their camping gear and supplies. “Well, I want my supper, too, Huan-lad, and a smoke, and several good ales.”

“Several? And then you’ll be wanting your bed no doubt, but if you snore, Sam dear, you’ll have to sleep on the floor in the common-room!”

“Cruel you are, Frodo Baggins. Did you hear that, Huan?”

The little whippet gave one short, sharp bark that was more indicative of impatience than sympathy with Sam’s plight, and the two hobbits were laughing as they hurried up the path to the front entrance of _The Golden Perch_ in the village of Stock in the Marish.

They passed beneath a signboard painted with an improbably yellow fish leaping in the air, mouth gaping wide, and the name of the inn inscribed in ornate letters below it, and mounted the few shallow stone steps to the front door.

Sam held the heavy wooden door open for Frodo and Huan, who was crowding close at his master’s heels, and then followed them inside. The interior of the inn was smoky, dim and noisy: an atmosphere so much like _The Green Dragon_ or _The Ivy Bush_ that both Frodo and Sam felt immediately at ease. The inevitable memories of another inn, and the frightening events that occurred there, faded from their minds. Here were only hobbits, no strange Men or Dwarves, and the bar, the tables and the chairs were all hobbit-sized.

They hadn’t advanced more than a few paces into the stone-flagged entryway when a middle-aged hobbit with greying locks, a harried expression and a white apron tied about his waist came bustling up to them.

“Good evening, sirs, good evening!” he cried. “Madoc Longhole is my name, landlord of this establishment. How might I be of assistance to you?”

“My companion and I should like a meal and a bed for the night, if you’ve a room to spare,” said Frodo politely.

“Indeed we have, sir, rooms and food aplenty both,” the landlord replied, looking pleased. “We don’t see much custom these days other than local folk and the Bucklanders from across the River, not since the Troubles ended and the _Perch_ reopened.” He studied them for a moment, and then asked, “You’ll not mind, I hope, if I ask your names and where you’re from?”

“Not at all,” Frodo answered readily. “I am Frodo Baggins and this is Samwise Gamgee. We come from Hobbiton.”

Madoc Longhole’s eyes widened with dawning wonder. “The Travellers? The ones what went away with Mr. Merry Brandybuck? I’ve heard tell of you, Mr. Baggins, and you, too, Mr. Gamgee. ‘Tis a right honour to meet you both.” His gaze went to Frodo’s right hand, and the wonder in his eyes increased as he took in the stump of the finger that Gollum had bit off in that desperate struggle at the Cracks of Doom.

Though the landlord did not stare for more than a few seconds, Sam could see discomfort cast a pall over Frodo like a cloud passing over the sun, and Frodo’s maimed right hand unconsciously sought for the white jewel that hung ever on a fine silver chain at his breast. Huan, sensing Frodo’s distress, whined softly and pressed close to his legs, offering what comfort he could.

Sam spoke up. “I ain’t intending to seem rude, Mr. Longhole, but Frodo and me have walked a fair distance today. We could do with a washing up, and then a hot supper and a mug of beer would go down right well, if you take my meaning.”

“I do, indeed, and I beg your pardon, I’m sure. Right this way, good sirs,” Madoc Longhole said with a respectful bow. They followed him past the bar, and down a corridor lined with doors to right and left. He had taken only a few paces down the hallway, however, when he paused. “There’s lodging for your dog in the stables, Mr. Baggins,” he added, looking askance at Huan.

“The stables?” Frodo repeated, his discomfort vanishing in the face of this suggestion, and Sam fought the urge to smile at the outrage in his voice. “No, indeed, Mr. Longhole. Huan will stay with us, in our room.”

“If you say so, Mr. Baggins.” The landlord didn’t argue the point, though he clearly thought Frodo’s insistence odd.

“I do,” Frodo stated firmly.

They passed several doors before Madoc Longhole finally halted, and selected a key from the many hanging from a metal ring on his belt. He unlocked the door and showed Frodo and Sam into a spacious, comfortable bedchamber- the very best at the inn, he assured them- and left them with a promise to send a servant along with hot water as soon as might be.

The moment the door closed behind them, Sam eased his heavy pack from his shoulders with a relieved sigh, and set it down on the carpet with a muffled thud. He rolled his shoulders a few times to undo the kinks, and then turned to Frodo, who was struggling with his own much lighter burden. “Here, let me help, my dear,” he murmured, and reached for the straps, taking the canvas bag from Frodo and setting it beside his own.

“Thank you, Sam.” Frodo smiled, but there were telltale lines of weariness bracketing his mouth, revealing the toll the day’s exertions had taken on him, and dark smudges beneath the blue eyes that Sam so loved.

Without a word, Sam took Frodo into his arms and held him close, threading the fingers of one hand into his windswept dark curls and cradling the back of his skull gently. Frodo relaxed into Sam’s embrace, winding his arms about Sam’s waist, and resting his head upon his shoulder.

“All right?” Sam asked softly after a minute or so.

“I could fall asleep right here in your arms, Sam,” Frodo said drowsily, rubbing his cheek against the softness of Sam’s oft-washed linen shirt, and breathing in the beloved, comforting scent of him. “You make a lovely bed.”

Sam chuckled. “I’d not mind a bit if I didn’t hear your stomach rumbling. You need to eat, Frodo-love.”

“That wasn’t my stomach,” Frodo protested feebly, as his stomach gave another loud, emphatic growl.

“Oh, and whose stomach was it, then? And don’t tell me it was Huan.”

“I wouldn’t!” Frodo was indignant, and then, diverted, he added, “Oh Sam, can you believe that landlord wanted us to put Huan in the stables for the night?”

“’Tis what most folk would do, Frodo,” Sam pointed out. Frodo’s lack of knowledge about dogs and dog ownership still sometimes came as a surprise to Sam. Then he would remind himself that Frodo had been terrorised by Farmer Maggot’s dogs when he was only a lad, and that it had taken the love of a gentle, abused whippet to cure him of a lifelong fear of dogs. “Don’t be too hard on Longhole.”

“Well, we aren’t ‘most folk’, Sam, and Huan isn’t just a dog. He’s family.”

“Aye, so he is, and so he knows,” Sam’s voice was filled with amusement. “Take a look at our Huan, Frodo. He’s made himself right at home.”

Frodo raised his head from Sam’s shoulder, and followed the direction of his gaze. Against the far wall stood a large four-poster bed of carved oak, covered with a thick cream-coloured quilt. Curled up in the center of the bed was Huan. He’d already arranged the quilt to his satisfaction, using his front paws to gather it into a tidy nest. He was peering at them over the folds of the blanket, and his bright dark eyes held a look of approval.

“Well, the accommodations appear to satisfy Huan, anyway,” Frodo laughed.

At that moment a knock came at the door, and Sam opened it to a young hobbit who was staggering a bit under the weight of a large can with tendrils of steam curling from the top. Sam rescued the can, which was tipping perilously, and gave the blushing lad a penny for his troubles.

A short time later, having put soap and hot water to good use, Frodo and Sam made their way to the common-room. Madoc Longhole was hovering at the end of the hall, clearly waiting for them, and with another deferential bow led them to a small table by one of the windows. It was a warm night and the room was nigh stifling, but a breeze was stirring the curtains at the open window, and the heat was far less pronounced on that side of the room.

There were perhaps twenty or so hobbits in the common-room when Frodo and Sam entered. The room fell gradually silent as their presence was noticed, and they immediately became the focus of every one of those twenty-odd pairs of eyes- but the looks held a fair measure of awe and much of kindliness. It was apparent to both Frodo and Sam that word of their identities had been passed on by Madoc Longhole, and the greetings they received from the local hobbits as they crossed the room were respectful- from those who could overcome their awe enough to speak, that is. Some simply nodded or touched their forelocks shyly.

But no one appeared to notice Huan, a small grey shadow pacing quietly at Frodo’s side.

After they were seated, and Huan was curled up beneath Frodo’s chair with only the tip of his blue muzzle showing between the scarred wooden legs, a young serving lass appeared to take their order. The landlord’s daughter, it transpired, for she introduced herself as Daisy Longhole. She was a pretty young hobbit with abundant light brown curls and lively brown eyes, and a shapely figure shown to its best advantage by a close-fitting white blouse that was cut low across the bosom. That she had an eye for Sam became immediately apparent.

Unaffected by the awe that tied the tongues of the other hobbits, she flirted rather outrageously with Sam as she took their order- two ales and two joints of mutton, and, of course, this being the Marish, a separate platter of mushrooms. Daisy looked a trifle taken aback when Frodo requested an extra bowl for his dog, but was too much occupied with Sam to do more than briefly raise her eyebrows.

Sam, somewhat regrettably, flirted back, an appreciative twinkle in his eyes for Daisy’s pert tongue, but Frodo wasn’t really worried. Beneath the table, Sam’s right hand had taken hold of Frodo’s left, and his thumb was tracing lazy, seductive circles across the palm.

“You’ve made a conquest, Sam,” Frodo murmured as Daisy Longhole sashayed away, hips swaying beneath her full skirts.

“Have I?” Sam replied, his eyes following her progress, and a slight smile quirking his lips. “And who might that be?” His thumb continued its lazy caress.

“You’d be impossible to live with if I told you, Sam Gamgee,” Frodo said, but he only removed his hand from Sam’s when Daisy returned carrying two pewter mugs, white foam spilling down their sides, and a basket filled with rolls still hot from the oven. “To tide you over ‘til your main course is ready,” she said with a wink, setting one of the mugs and the basket of rolls in front of Sam.

After she departed, Sam took a long, long swallow of the beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and sighed with satisfaction. “Well, Pippin was right about the beer, and no mistake. If I’d known how right, I might not have agreed so readily to your shortcut, Frodo.”

“And I might not have suggested it,” Frodo replied after taking a draught from his own mug. He licked his lips. “Mmm, I think even your father would have to admit that this is as fine a beer as any in the Shire.”

Sam selected a roll from the basket and tore it in half, releasing a yeasty, mouth-watering aroma into the air. He pushed the basket toward Frodo who took two rolls, and Sam pretended not to notice when one of them mysteriously disappeared under the table. But a rapid thump-thump-thump on the wood floor made it pretty clear exactly where that roll had ended up.

They ate the warm bread and drank the excellent beer in contented silence for a time, and then Frodo said, “It will be so good to visit with Merry and Pippin at Crickhollow, to be together again, just the four of us. We’ve not had that pleasure for some time, and I’ve missed it.” Missed the wordless understanding they shared among them, missed being able to talk about their friends in Gondor and Rohan and Rivendell without blank stares or curious questions to distract them.

“Aye,” Sam agreed. “We’ve been too busy, the lot of us. But we’ve earned ourselves a small holiday, Frodo. Our lives are settling down at last, and our Shire is nearly whole again.”

_Is it?_ wondered Frodo. But he kept the words to himself. The glow of Sam’s happiness ought not be marred with gloomy thoughts.

“Though,” Sam went on, the glow dimming anyway as if he had in fact sensed Frodo’s thoughts, “I wish you hadn’t resigned, Frodo. You stay too much at home now, and spend too many hours shut up in your study.”

There was no reproach in Sam’s voice. He had never reproached Frodo for his decision to resign his office as Deputy Mayor on Midsummer’s day, and somehow that made it all the harder for Frodo to bear his disappointment.

“It was time, Sam,” Frodo said softly. “It was only meant to be a temporary position, you know. And dear Will is so happy to have his old job back. Besides, I need to work harder on Bilbo’s book. I promised him I would finish it, and I mean to. I know you don’t like to think about it, and neither do I, but Bilbo is old, Sam, very old.” And has one final journey left to make. But that thought, too, he kept to himself, as he had the words that the Queen had spoken to him by the fountain in Minas Tirith.

Sam studied a deep scratch in the surface of the table as if it held some secret he had to unlock. He nodded. “I worry about you, is all.”

Frodo nearly smiled at the understatement. It was a running joke between them, Sam’s constant attempts to coddle Frodo, and Frodo telling Sam in return to ‘please stop fussing’. “Be fair, Sam. I’m quite fit now. Huan and I walk several miles every day, no matter the weather, and I could have made it all the way to Crickhollow if you’d not insisted we stop here for the night.”

That stubborn insistence brought a smile to Sam’s lips, and he looked up from his absorption in the tabletop. “Aye, you probably could have. But Merry and Pippin don’t expect us until tomorrow, and there is no reason to push on, not when we have the best beer in the Eastfarthing to enjoy.”

Sam studied Frodo’s face in the light from the lanterns that hung from the ceiling beams and thought it looked fuller than it had even a few weeks earlier. Sam clung with fierce desperation to the thought, as if by sheer force of will he could make Frodo be healed and whole again. “You’re growing stronger every day,” he added.

“I am,” Frodo agreed. But October was not far off now, and his illness of the previous autumn was a heavy weight on his mind. “And here comes Daisy with our food, and not a moment too soon,” he said with relief, as the serving lass approached balancing a plate-laden tray on one dimpled shoulder with accustomed ease. “We are on holiday, and ought not speak of serious matters.”

The _Perch_ ’s food was as excellent as its beer. The mutton was done to a turn, and there were new potatoes swimming in butter and parsley, perfectly braised onions and crisp green beans to go with the meat. And, of course, there was a heaping platter of buttery mushrooms.

Before Frodo would even consider allowing two hungry hobbits to eat, however, there was one hungry whippet to feed, a whippet who had abandoned his spot beneath Frodo’s chair the moment the mutton had arrived, and was now watching with rapt attention as Frodo cut slices of mutton from the bone and dropped them into the extra bowl he’d requested. Frodo added more bread, some potatoes and even some beans to the mix.

He had been amused and amazed to discover how much Huan loved food of all sorts; the little whippet ate things Frodo had never dreamed a dog would eat. In fact, he’d discovered quite by accident one evening, after carelessly knocking his cup with an elbow and sloshing a goodly amount of tea onto the floor, that Huan had a fondness for sweet milky tea. The look on Sam’s face when he saw Frodo pouring tea into a saucer and setting it on the floor for Huan to lap up had been comical in the extreme. But sharing a nightly cuppa with Huan had since become a ritual- Sam’s rolling eyes notwithstanding.

Huan was literally quivering with anticipation from muzzle to tail tip by the time Frodo leaned over and set the nearly full bowl on the floor in front of him. And in seconds the familiar sound of metal clinking on pottery could be heard as the brass buckle of Huan’s collar tapped against the side of the bowl while he devoured his food in quick, eager mouthfuls.

“I’m relieved Huan doesn’t care overmuch for mushrooms,” Frodo commented, as he turned his attention to his own food. “I really don’t mind sharing the mutton or potatoes with him, but I must confess that giving up any of these mushrooms would go hard with me, Sam.”

“Well, I hope you don’t mind sharing them with me, my dear. Unlike our Huan, I do care for ‘em,” said Sam, who was spooning a large mound of mushrooms onto his plate.

“That depends on how many you take for yourself,” Frodo replied suspiciously, half rising from his seat to get a look at the platter in Sam’s hand and count how many mushrooms remained.

“Oh, I left you one or two,” Sam teased, holding the platter up and away from Frodo as he reached for it.

A playful feint and parry ensued, one that left them both breathless with laughter, and Frodo in possession of the platter- and the larger portion of mushrooms, as it happened. Their laughter attracted the attention of the other hobbits in the room who watched them curiously, though neither Frodo nor Sam noticed, so engrossed were they in each other and the truly excellent mushrooms.

But not all eyes were trained on Frodo and Sam. One of the hobbits was staring at Huan.

***

After finishing their meal with a thoroughness that Huan would have approved, and presenting their compliments to Madoc Longhole, Frodo and Sam joined the hobbits who were gathered in a circle about the cold fireplace on a pair of settles or in comfortable armchairs, smoking and gossiping. They lit their pipes, too, and Sam nursed a beer- his third, and as he told Frodo, it went down just as smoothly as the first two had.

Sam’s natural gregariousness and informality soon put the more reticent hobbits at their ease, and the conversation flowed easily- somewhat helped along, no doubt, by the efficacy of strong beer at relaxing tongues.

It developed that Sam was known to a couple of the hobbits present by more than just word of mouth. They had seen him out and about during the past winter as he made his way around the Shire planting trees to replace the ones cut down during the Troubles, and they were eager to tell him how the saplings were faring. It delighted Sam no end to be told that they were growing more quickly than anyone would ever have thought possible. Though he made no mention of the Lady’s gift, Frodo knew that it was very much on Sam’s mind.

Frodo sat smoking quietly, legs extended in front of him, feeling pleasantly drowsy and on the verge of nodding off. Huan, curled up now at Frodo’s feet with his chin resting on his master’s crossed ankles, had already nodded off. The little whippet was tired, for he had travelled considerably farther than either Frodo or Sam, having made numerous forays into the bushes following intriguing scents or chasing squirrels up trees, returning eventually with his tongue lolling and his sides heaving, and wearing what could only be called a smile on his face.

Frodo participated little in the good-natured gossip, preferring to let Sam do the talking, and recount the latest doings in Hobbiton and Bywater. He had no intention of calling attention to himself as he had on another memorable occasion, either by jumping onto a table and singing about cows and moons and dishes and spoons, or by telling anyone that he was a writer, conducting research for a book. It occurred to Frodo that he could, in fact, truthfully claim to be a writer now- and he had more than sufficient material for the book he was writing.

But there was one similarity between this evening and that memorable one at _The Prancing Pony_ in Bree: Frodo once again had the sense of watchful eyes upon him. He half-expected, as he scanned the room with studied casualness, to discover a weather-beaten Ranger with a keen glance hidden in a corner and observing him from beneath the shadow of his hood. But that Ranger was now a King and wore the silver and black of Gondor, not well worn, stained leather. He would not find Strider here in Stock.

What Frodo did find, however, was an unkempt-looking hobbit of about his own age sitting alone at a small table near the bar. The hobbit appeared down on his luck, for the frayed edges of his faded coat sleeves were visible even through the haze of pipe smoke as he sat hunched forward with his elbows on the table. Several empty beer mugs sat in front of him and he cradled another between his hands. Judging by the stranger’s flushed face and overly bright eyes, Frodo thought him to be well into his cups. He felt a pang of sympathy for the sorry-looking hobbit, sitting by himself and perhaps wishing that he could be part of the congenial group by the fireplace.

But then Frodo realised that the stranger’s gaze was not in fact focussed on him as he’d imagined; rather it was the sleeping Huan at whom he stared so fixedly. He most likely thought it queer for a dog to be in the common-room, Frodo decided, remembering what Sam had told him earlier.

In truth, Frodo was grown accustomed to such reactions to Huan, for the denizens of _The Green Dragon_ had never quite become inured to the idea of the Master of Bag End taking in the little stray that used to hang about Bywater stealing food from the dustbins. It was yet one more eccentricity to chalk up to ‘Mad Baggins’, or perhaps Huan’s mere presence reminded them of actions of which they now felt ashamed.

Just then the hobbit looked up and met Frodo’s eyes. He started as if guilty to have been caught staring, and immediately averted his own eyes, and buried his face in his mug.

Frodo dismissed the incident from his mind, and turned his attention back to Sam, who had just finished describing his never-to-be-forgotten encounter with an oliphaunt to a rapt, if somewhat skeptical, audience. Huan chose that moment to wake, yawn, stand up and stretch, before circling twice and flopping down again on the rug, facing the opposite direction.

“That’s a fine looking little dog you’ve got there, Mr. Baggins,” said one of the hobbits, gesturing at Huan with his pipe.

Words to delight the heart of any dog owner, and Frodo was certainly no exception. He smiled, well pleased by the compliment. “Thank you. Sam and I certainly think so.” He bent down and gently caressed the velvet-soft fur of Huan’s head. The whippet’s coat was blooming with health, and gleamed like polished pewter in the lantern light. He had once commented to Sam that Huan looked like a small Shadowfax, all graceful curves and sleek lines, and though Gandalf might take issue with the comparison, Frodo thought it quite apt.

“Is he good on rabbits?” asked another hobbit. “He looks speedy, right enough.” There were nods and murmurs of assent from the others. Many of them were farmers in the Marish, and knew the value of a well-bred, efficient working dog.

Frodo was less pleased by this compliment, and repressed a frown. The farmer had touched on a sore point between him and Sam. Huan was good on rabbits- very good as a matter of fact- but Frodo had never yet accompanied Sam on his weekly rabbiting expeditions with the whippet. In fact, he’d been flabbergasted the first time Sam asked to borrow Huan for an afternoon to help clear Farmer Cotton’s fields of an overabundance of coneys that were ruining his crops.

“Use Huan for hunting? Sam, how can you even think of it,” Frodo had protested indignantly.

“’Tis kinder on the rabbits than using snares or traps, Frodo,” Sam had pointed out practically, “and after all, ‘tis what he’s been bred to do.”

“Huan doesn’t need to earn his keep.”

“No, he don’t. But Farmer Cotton could use the help, and I reckon after all he’s done for us, we owe him a favour.”

In the end, Frodo had reluctantly agreed, for he could hardly begrudge a favour to the Cottons when they had been kindness itself to Frodo, giving him a home for so many months after his return to the Shire. But he asked no questions, and Sam volunteered no information, when the pair returned from an outing, though Sam was usually carrying a brace or two of coneys. Tom Cotton was aware of Frodo’s feelings on the matter, but had still made a point of thanking Frodo for the use of Huan on his farm.

So it was Sam, with a quick, half-amused, half-alarmed sidelong glance at Frodo, who replied to the farmer’s question. “Aye, that he is,” he said with justifiable pride. “As fine a coney catcher as you could wish for.” And Sam went on to relate a few stories of Huan’s prowess as a rabbit hunter, stories that impressed the listening hobbits and even (though he would never admit it) Frodo.

At his table near the bar, the ill-kempt hobbit perked up as the conversation turned to Huan, and his gaze fixed on the little whippet once more.

But this time, Frodo did not notice.

***

“A right pleasant evening,” said Sam in a low voice as he and Frodo made their way across the common-room. They had pleaded weariness at last and bidden good night to their companions, who were not yet ready to call it a night, and had tried unsuccessfully to convince their new friends to linger.

“It was,” Frodo agreed, but his mind was not on the pleasant evening just passed. It was on Sam, who looked beautiful in the lantern light, with his cheeks rosy from the heat (and perhaps those three beers), and his dark eyes shining with simple pleasure. The strong brown column of Sam’s throat was exposed, for he’d removed the kerchief he usually kept knotted about it, and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt in deference to the heat. It was hardly to be wondered at, Frodo supposed, that Daisy Longhole had taken such a fancy to Sam. A fleeting image of another comely lass who fancied Sam flashed into Frodo’s mind, bringing with it feelings of guilt and unease that continued to plague him. He banished them firmly. He would allow nothing to spoil this night, or their long-anticipated holiday.

“I am ready to retire now,” Frodo added, though he no longer felt in the least bit sleepy.

“You go on ahead then, Frodo-love, and I’ll take Huan for his walk.”

“All right,” Frodo said, “but try not to be too long.” He smiled mischievously at Sam. “Or I really shall banish you to the common-room floor. I have certain plans, my dear, with which falling asleep will most certainly interfere.”

“We won’t be long, I promise,” said Sam, a spark of heat leaping to life in his eyes.

***

It was a lovely night for a stroll, and had Sam not felt some understandable urgency to return to the _Perch_ as he’d promised, he would have lingered out-of-doors. It felt good to breathe in a deep lungful of fresh, clean air after the smoky, stuffy atmosphere in the common-room.

The sound of water rippling over rocks reached his ears, and Sam said, “Come on, Huan,” and set off in the direction of the Stock-brook, a glinting ribbon of silver under the starlight a short distance ahead. Huan, seeming revived by the fresh air, too, frolicked around Sam, making little dashes here and there, and running in tight circles for the sheer joy of it. He settled down after a few minutes, however, and hobbit and dog ambled in peaceful content through the balmy darkness. Sam’s mind was on Frodo, as it so often was, and the promise in his lambent eyes as he told Sam not to be too long.

It took Sam a moment, therefore, to realise that something was wrong with Huan. The whippet had stopped, and a low rumbling sound, barely audible, was issuing from deep in his throat. To Sam’s astonishment, Huan, that gentlest of dogs, was growling! Every hair on his neck and back was raised in alert, as were his ears and tail. He was staring into the blackness as if he perceived some threat that was so far invisible to Sam.

“Huan-lad,” Sam exclaimed, alarmed, “what-" but before he could even complete the thought, he caught a sudden blur of motion from the corner of his eye. He started to turn toward it, but his reactions, dulled perhaps by the beer, were sluggish. Something hard crashed against the back of his skull with terrific force, and he knew no more.

***

Sam came slowly back to consciousness, and opened his eyes. Frodo was staring at him anxiously- or rather several Frodos were staring at him anxiously, Frodos who danced around before him in a manner that made him feel distinctly nauseous. A throbbing pain was lancing through Sam’s skull, and he couldn’t seem to focus his eyes properly. He closed them, and the nausea subsided a little.

“W-what… happened…” he mumbled, confused. He was lying in bed, propped up on a mound of pillows, but the why and how was a mystery, as was the cause of the excruciating pain in his head.

Frodo was sitting beside him and holding his hand in a comforting clasp. He spoke calmly, but the worry in his voice was unmistakable. “You were struck down, Sam. Outside the Inn. When you didn’t return, I went looking for you and found you…” Frodo’s voice faltered. His grip on Sam’s hand tightened, and then relaxed. “We carried you inside, and a healer has been summoned. But it’s only a precaution, and I don’t want you to fret, Sam-love. I’m certain that you’ll be just fine.” Frodo sounded as if he was trying to convince himself as much as Sam.

Vague memories returned to Sam then, stirred by Frodo’s words. He’d been outside _The Golden Perch_ walking Huan, and the whippet had sensed danger. Then there had been that blur of motion, and something had hit him on the back of the head… “Huan?” he asked, feeling a sense of dread that he couldn’t explain.

Frodo’s hand tightened again, almost painfully this time. “Huan’s gone, Sam,” he said in an agonised whisper.

***

“I’m coming with you,” Sam insisted stubbornly, trying to sit up. The sudden motion made his head throb and spin, and he fell back against the pillows with a moan of pain.

“Now Master Gamgee,” said the healer, Ada Tunnelly, in a scolding voice, “you just lie still and keep the compress on that lump. You ain’t going nowhere, lad, not for a day or two, and you’re fit to do naught save stay in bed and rest.” The healer was a stout, robust-looking hobbit with a no-nonsense manner. Her assessment of Sam after examining him had been swift and reassuring: a large, tender lump on his skull, but no fractures, and his eyes had reacted well to light, so no more than a mild concussion. She’d put a compress on his head and dosed him with willow bark tea, and Frodo suspected that if necessary, she’d tie Sam to the bed to prevent him from trying to follow Frodo.

“Mistress Tunnelly is correct,” agreed Frodo who, while sympathising with Sam, was anxious to start his search for Huan, and had no time for arguing. “I know you want to go with me, Sam, but it’s simply out of the question. I’ll be quite safe, my dear. Mr. Longhole is sending two servants with me, and both of them will be carrying cudgels.”

“If anything was to happen to you or Huan, and me not there…” Moisture was pooling in Sam’s eyes; one lone tear overflowed and trickled down his cheek.

Frodo leaned down and wiped the tear away with his thumb. “Sam, it will be all right, I promise.” Ignoring Mistress Tunnelly, Madoc Longhole and Daisy Longhole, all of whom were hovering and watching Frodo and Sam with rapt interest, Frodo kissed Sam gently. “Now stop fussing,” he scolded with a slight smile, and stood up. “Huan and I will be back before you know it, and Merry and Pippin may be along before then, if they are home when the messenger arrives. And I’ve told Pippin he’s to sit on you if you even think about getting out of this bed.”

Sam chuckled, a watery chuckle to be sure, and Frodo, with one final, reassuring smile, strode from the room.

But in truth, leaving an injured Sam behind was no easy matter, and Frodo’s heart was sore as he hurried outside to the waiting trap and the servants who were to accompany him on his search for Huan. That terrifying moment when he found Sam sprawled facedown on the ground, and he did not know if he was dead or alive, was not one he wished to experience ever again. Nor the moment when he realised that Huan, who he knew would never have willingly abandoned Sam, had gone missing.

But underneath the layers of terror and near-panic, a part of Frodo’s mind was furiously thinking and adding two-and-two, and it had not taken long for the answer to Huan’s disappearance to come to him. It must be the unkempt hobbit in the common-room, the one who had been staring at Huan. Why the stranger would want to steal the whippet was a mystery to Frodo, but there had been that in the hobbit’s intent gaze as he looked at Huan, and his guilty start when he discovered Frodo had caught him staring that convinced Frodo that he was the one responsible.

Once the healer had arrived, and Frodo was assured that Sam’s injury was not life threatening, he had taken Madoc Longhole aside and proposed his theory as to the identity of the assailant. Expecting outright skepticism, Frodo was relieved when the landlord instead looked thoughtful, nodded his head, and said, “Well, Mr. Baggins, I reckon you might be right. Hal Sandheaver’s been down on his luck ever since the Troubles, and taken to drinking more than he ought. Desperate hobbits do foolish things,” he added with a sigh, and ran his hand through his grizzled locks. “I learned that right enough while those Ruffians was in charge hereabouts. Will it ever end, I sometimes wonder?”

Frodo wondered, too, but his more immediate concern was finding Huan, and he steered the conversation back to Hal Sandheaver, and where he might be found. Frodo soon had made arrangements for the use of a pony and cart, and two stalwart servants to accompany him to the farm that was about a half-hour’s drive from the Perch.

Now, Frodo climbed up into the cart beside young Tam Brockhouse and his brother Ted, and said urgently, “Let’s go.” Tam, who was driving, tapped the pony with his whip, and urged him into a fast trot, and they were soon bowling along the road, the lanterns hung to the cart’s sides swinging and swaying and casting eerie shadows across the ground.

The drive seemed interminable to Frodo, for his anxiety over Huan’s welfare was intense. It seemed hard to believe that it had not yet been quite six months since that day outside the baker’s shop in Bywater when Frodo had discovered the starved, abused little dog following him, and decided to take him home. The whippet was so much a part of his and Sam’s lives that it seemed he had always been a small grey shadow at Frodo’s heels as he walked, or a comforting warmth curled up at Frodo’s side on the parlour sofa of an evening. Frodo could not imagine life without Huan now, and the depth of his love for the dog was a revelation.

In the wake of this revelation came another emotion: anger. Anger at Hal Sandheaver for the fear that Huan must be experiencing, torn from his family and perhaps being abused as he once had been, and anger for the pain that Sam was suffering. Nothing could justify such behaviour, Frodo thought, and though he himself would never again raise a hand in anger or wield a weapon, he would see that Sandheaver was brought to justice, in accordance with Shire law, for what he had done.

Tam and Ted seemed to understand that Frodo did not want to talk, and conversation was kept to a minimum, until Ted finally said, “This is Sandheaver’s land bordering the road.”

Eventually Tam turned the pony down a narrow rutted lane on their right. The lane led to a large yard and a low brick farmhouse with a thatched roof, typical of the Marish. There was no sign of life; the round windows were dark as if the inhabitants were all in bed. Frodo dismounted from the cart and unhooked one of the lanterns. Holding it before him, and with Tam and Ted following him, cudgels at the ready, Frodo walked up to the front door, and struck the wood hard with his fist, several loud knocks that would not easily be ignored. Peeling yellow paint flaked off as Frodo pounded, and he recalled Madoc Longhouse’s words, that Hal Sandheaver had been down on his luck. There was an air of neglect about the place; Frodo had noticed it at once: straggling weeds and untrimmed hedges and abandoned bits of farm equipment littering the yard.

When there was no response, Frodo pounded on the door again, even harder, bruising his fist. After a moment or two, the glow of lantern light could be seen behind the windows, and an irritable voice could be heard saying, “All right, all right, I’m coming.”

With a creak, the door slowly opened inward, and Hal Sandheaver stood before Frodo, holding a small smoky lantern. He looked haggard and disheveled in the dim light, and was dressed in the same clothes he’d had on at the Perch, as if he’d fallen into bed fully clothed. “What do you want?” he asked belligerently. “I don’t welcome strangers on my land. Be off with you.”

“I’ve come for my dog,” Frodo said in a calm voice, though his heart was beating rather fast. Sandheaver was nearly as tall as Frodo, but half again as wide, and looked as if he could give Tam and Ted all they could handle in a fight.

“I don’t know nothing about no dog,” replied Sandheaver flatly. “You’ve made a mistake. Now be off.” He started to shut the door in Frodo’s face.

“Have I?” Frodo stepped back, cupped his hands around his mouth and called loudly, “Huan!” Immediately, a frenzy of barking erupted from a dimly-seen shed across the yard. “I think you have some explaining to do, Sandheaver,” he said quietly.

Hal Sandheaver wilted before Frodo’s very eyes. He sagged against the peeling paint, and looked ten years older. But before he could answer, another voice came from the darkness behind the farmer.

“Hal?” said a soft female voice, and a pale-faced hobbit clad in a faded dressing gown and white cap appeared at Hal’s side. “What’s going on?” she asked fearfully, clutching at his arm.

“Nothing, Bell,” Hal said roughly. “Go back to bed, lass.”

But Bell Sandheaver had seen Frodo and his companions, and her face fell. “It’s the dog, isn’t it?” she asked. “You’ve come for the dog. I wondered where he really came from.”

Though Frodo’s heart was wrung with compassion for the sorrow his words would bring her, he said, “Yes, I have. The dog belongs to me. Your husband stole him outside _The Golden Perch_ , after attacking my friend and knocking him unconscious.”

Bell Sandheaver’s eyes filled with horror. “Oh Hal, what have you done?” she said, one hand creeping up to her throat. “You told me you found him running loose in the woods.”

There was a moment’s silence, broken only by the sound of Huan’s barking.

Hal rubbed his hand over his eyes; he looked bent and broken. “I don’t know what came over me,” he said at last. “A kind of madness, it was. I had too much drink, and when I saw your friend and the dog… I hope I didn’t hurt him bad.”

“Badly enough, but he’ll live,” Frodo replied. “Now I’d like to get my dog. Is the shed locked?”

Hal Sandheaver nodded. “I’ve got the key in my pocket,” he said, and without another word, led the way across the weed-choked yard, stumbling a little, followed by Frodo, Tam and Ted, and Bell Sandheaver.

The sound of Huan’s barking grew louder, and Frodo could hear him scratching frantically at the wood door of the shed with his front paws, causing it to rattle on its hinges. “I’m coming, Huan,” Frodo called. “I’m coming, lad.” But the sound of Frodo’s voice only seemed to increase Huan’s frenzy, as if the thought of his master being so close yet kept from him was intolerable.

Hal Sandheaver pulled a key from his pocket and inserted it in the rusty lock on the shed latch. It popped open, and he pulled it free. Immediately, there was a blur of motion as Huan, a desperate streak of grey, bolted from the shed and leapt into Frodo’s waiting arms.

The little whippet, trembling all over, burrowed frantically against Frodo’s chest, and pushed his cold nose into Frodo’s neck, whimpering. Frodo held him closely and said over and over in a choked whisper, “Hush now, hush now, it’s all right.” He was blinking back tears.

Bell Sandheaver was sobbing. Her husband put his arm around her to comfort her. “I’m sorry, Bell,” he said wretchedly.

But she pulled away, and cried, “I’m not the one you need to apologise to, Hal Sandheaver, ‘tis this little dog and his owners. Oh sir,” she turned to Frodo, “I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive him. Hal’s not a bad hobbit. He’d never have harmed your dog.”

Frodo studied the Sandheavers as he held Huan to his breast and gently soothed him with one hand, stroking him over and over. Frodo could feel the whippet’s heart racing, but Huan’s trembling was slowly lessening as he realised he was safe. Frodo could not help feeling pity for the couple, and the anger had faded from his heart. There was a tragic story here, he felt certain, and one that he ought to hear.

“Perhaps, Mrs. Sandheaver, we could all use a cup of tea, if you’ve any to spare,” Frodo said gently, and the almost pathetic gratitude in Bell Sandheaver’s eyes at his words told him he had judged rightly.

“Thank you,” Bell whispered. “Your kindness is more than we deserve, Mr…” Bell hesitated.

“Baggins, Frodo Baggins,” Frodo replied.

Hal and Bell exchanged horrified looks. “I never did catch your name, Mr. Baggins, nor your friend neither,” Hal said, wringing his hands and looking, if possible, even more broken.

“My friend is Samwise Gamgee.”

“Oh, Hal, you- you struck down one of the Travellers?” Bell sounded utterly defeated, as if life had dealt her one blow too many.

Frodo couldn’t bear the sight of their wretchedness a moment longer. “I think we’d best go inside, Mrs. Sandheaver, and have that tea.”

Bell nodded, turned and led the way back to the farmhouse. Frodo, still carrying Huan in his arms, followed, and wondered what could have brought this family so low.

***

They sat around a long scrubbed wooden table, and Bell poured the tea. Tam and Ted thanked her quietly. They were subdued by what had happened. Any hopes they might have had for a bit of glory defending one of the Travellers had been dashed, and they clearly felt that Frodo was well able to handle matters on his own.

The interior of the Sandheaver’s farmhouse was spotlessly clean. Bell was house-proud and it showed, but the same sad air hung about the inside of the farmhouse as the outside. The tea mugs were chipped, and the napkins faded and worn with much washing and use.

“We’ve only goat’s milk,” Bell apologised to Frodo as she set a pitcher on the table. “And nothing to sweeten it, I’m afraid.”

“That’s quite all right,” Frodo lied. “I don’t take either with my tea.” He picked up his mug and sipped: the tea was hot but weak, as if too few leaves had been used.

Frodo had begun to have an inkling of what had caused Hal Sandheaver to steal Huan, who was curled up now in Frodo’s lap and nearly calm again, only an occasional tremour shaking his body. But he did not want Frodo far from him, and when Frodo had tried to set him down on the floor when they entered the house, Huan had trembled violently and shrunk from Hal Sandheaver, who looked sick. Though Frodo did not believe that Sandheaver had been rough with Huan, it was clear that the experience had terrified the whippet, and brought back memories of events that were perhaps in part responsible for the numerous scars that marred the velvety smoothness of his coat.

When the tea had been served, and Bell was seated, Frodo said, “You wanted Huan for hunting, didn’t you, Mr. Sandheaver.”

“Aye,” Hal admitted heavily, as if the last shred of his dignity had left him. “To put food on the table, Mr. Baggins. I’m that desperate. We’ve three little ‘uns to feed, you see, and I’ve lost my livelihood.” He scrubbed a hand across his haggard face. “I had one of the finest farms in the Marish, afore the Troubles came. You’d not believe it to see it now, but it was. We moved here fifteen years ago from Bree, and I built it all with my own hands, and never asked a favour from no one.”

“Sharkey’s Men took all your crops and livestock?” Frodo asked sympathetically, knowing this had happened to so many in the Shire.

Hal gave a bitter laugh. “If it had only been that.” Bell was watching her husband with such love and sorrow in her eyes. “I stood up to them, you see. I wouldn’t give them so much as a chicken or a head of cabbage, and ran the first Men who showed up off my land. I was a proper fool.”

“No, you weren’t, Hal,” Bell said, taking her husband’s hand. “You were brave, and I was so proud of you.”

“Well, pride goes before a fall, they say in Bree,” Hal replied. “They came back, Mr. Baggins, a few days later. A great mob of them with horses and carts, and that Sharkey with them.”

Frodo’s heart sank. “Sharkey was with them?”

“Aye, curse him, and there was nowt I could do to stop them this time. Cleaned me out they did, drove off all my cattle and sheep, killed the chickens and took all the crops. But that weren’t the worst of it.” Hal drew a deep breath. “They salted my fields, Mr. Baggins, every last acre, and laughed while they did it, that Sharkey most of all. I can’t grow nowt in them no more, though I’ve tried, neither hay for cattle nor crops for market. I’m ruined.”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Sandheaver,” Frodo said, and remembered how his beloved Bag End had looked after Saruman had finished with it. Oh yes, he thought, Sharkey would have laughed at the ruin of a hobbit’s livelihood. But at least Bag End had been repairable. What must it be like to see the fertile ground you had nurtured turned to desolation like Mordor, unable to give life to anything? This is worse than Mordor! Sam had once said. How right he had been.

“I’ve found an odd job here or there, enough to keep me in beer,” Hal went on bitterly. “But I never thought I should fall so low as to do what I did this day. I don’t expect you to forgive me, Mr. Baggins, but my Bell is right: I owe you an apology, you and Mr. Gamgee and your dog. And I hope you’ll accept it, sir, as I’ll accept whatever punishment is due me.” Hal straightened his shoulders and looked Frodo squarely in the eyes, and Frodo could see the hobbit he had once been.

“I accept your apology,” Frodo said gently. He reached across the table, and set a hand- his right hand, the maimed one that he rarely used - over Hal Sandheaver’s. “But there will be no talk of punishment, Hal. In fact, I think it’s time someone helped you and your family to get back on your feet again.”

***

Merry, galloping down the road, met Frodo as he, Tam and Ted were driving back to _The Golden Perch_. “Frodo!” he exclaimed, drawing rein so abruptly that his pony reared. “You’re all right. Have you got Huan?”

Huan’s head popped up from the back of the cart at the sound of his name, and Merry laughed with relief. “Thank goodness! Sam has been frantic with worry about you two, and while Pippin didn’t have to sit on him to keep him from rushing after you, it was a near thing, let me tell you.”

Frodo laughed. “Poor Pippin! It’s a good thing he’s grown so tall, else I’m sure Sam would have tried to get away with it. But Merry,” he added more seriously, “I’ve a tale to tell you, and I’m going to need your help.”

Merry steered his pony over to ride close beside the cart, and listened as Frodo told him about Hal Sandheaver.

***

Back at _The Golden Perch_ , Sam had nearly reached the end of his tether, and Pippin was preparing to take drastic action if necessary.

“Something bad’s happened, I know it,” Sam was saying for the twentieth time. “Frodo ought to have been back by now.” He struggled to sit up, but such was his weakened state that Pippin had only to set one hand against Sam’s shoulder to keep him in place. “Let me up, you dratted Took,” said a furious, embarrassed and determined Sam.

“Now, now, remember what Mistress Tunnelly said before she escaped- ah, that is to say, left to go home. ‘You stay in bed and rest, Mr. Gamgee, and I don’t want to hear that you’ve done nothing foolish when I come back in the morning to see you,’” Pippin quoted.

“I’ll Mistress Tunnelly you, Peregrin Took, if you don’t let-" began Sam, but at that very moment the door to the bedchamber flew open, and there were Frodo and Huan on the threshold with Merry right behind them. “Frodo! Huan!” Sam choked out before collapsing back against the pillows with the intensity of his relief.

Huan wasted no time but ran and took a flying leap onto the bed, and began kissing Sam’s face while his tail wagged a mile a minute, as if his happiness at being reunited with Sam was simply too great to contain. Sam hugged him close and, of course, burst into tears of joy.

Huan licked them all away.

 

Epilogue

_Crickhollow, two days later…_

“How are you feeling, Sam dear?” asked Frodo with an anxious frown as he brought Sam his tea, and sat down beside him on the bed. “I hope the journey wasn’t too much for you. Mistress Tunnelly said that you might have a small relapse from all the bouncing around in the cart, and you should take it easy for a few days.”

Sam accepted the cup and gave Frodo an exasperated look. He was growing to loathe the words ‘Mistress Tunnelly said’ for Merry, Pippin and Frodo were constantly quoting the good dame at him. Sam was only grateful that Huan, curled up beside him with his head resting on Sam’s leg, couldn’t speak, or he was sure that the whippet would be quoting her at Sam, too.

“Please stop fussing, Frodo,” he said with a sly grin, and Frodo, hearing his own complaint turned back against him, laughed, as Sam had intended, and kissed him on the cheek. The best medicine there was, in Sam’s opinion, if you didn’t count just the sight of Frodo and Huan safe and sound. He hoped he never had to go through any more hours of suspense like those he had when he was bed-ridden at _The Golden Perch_ and waiting for Frodo to return.

Still, all was well as ended better, as his gaffer liked to say, and not just for Sam and Frodo and Huan.

Hal Sandheaver and his family had met with Frodo and Merry the day before, and Merry had offered them a good piece of fertile farmland with a small house in Buckland for their own. It had cost the proud farmer something to accept the offer, Frodo had told Sam, but he’d done it, with the understanding that as soon as he was on his feet again, he’d start paying Merry for the land.

Funny, how so much good could come out of something bad. Sam reckoned it was worth a lump on his noggin to know that Saruman’s mischief had been foiled again, even if the villain was not around to know about it.

A small sound caught Sam’s attention: a snore. Frodo, who had stretched out beside Sam on top of the covers, had fallen asleep, tired out after the stresses of the past few days. His mouth was drooping open slightly, and he was indeed snoring- but there was no question of Sam ever banishing Frodo to the common-room floor. On Sam’s other side, Huan was sleeping, too, and his eyelids twitched slightly and his legs moved a little as if he was dreaming. Sam hoped it was a happy dream of chasing rabbits through the fields at the Cotton’s farm.

Sam sipped his tea, and a feeling of perfect contentment filled him. He had everything he could ever wish for right here beside him: Frodo and Huan. His family. A patchwork family, maybe, but as fine a family as any hobbit in the Shire could ever hope for.

Sam smiled, set aside his tea and settled down between Frodo and Huan to sleep.

~end~


End file.
